Beast
by deeforthewin
Summary: What happens when Gaston takes on the same fate as the accursed Beast? Takes place after he falls from the castle spires at the end of the movie, and follows him on to his path to redemption.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N**_ : Wrote this for a dear friend who's in the throes of Gaston-loving passion right now. I think I talk to her too much for my head is filled with Luke Evans dancing around in tight red pants and this fic came dancing out late, late lateee at night (which appears to be exactly when inspiration chooses to strike, wtf. Like why inspiration, whyyyy?)

Anyway, here you go, my lovely. Prezzie for you!

* * *

He falls.

From the gothic spires from the top of the castle he falls.

Through a swirling fog and light rain, he tastes the bitterness of defeat and falls and plummets as he waits for the final impact of death.

It didn't come.

* * *

He awoke to find himself aching.

Throbbing.

In so much pain and _twisted_ in a mangled position that his mind struggled to piece and understand even as a dark cloud of foreboding swept insidiously through his body and settled itself over his heart.

Memories of Belle, of her father, of LeFou and of him - _It_... They assail him.

He looks up with pained-filled bleary eyes to see a woman shrouded in pure, golden light. A breathtakingly stunning woman with flowing robes and hair so pale it shimmered nearly white.

" _Beast_ ," she says, and waves her hands and strings of gold shoot out from her fingers and cocoons his broken form.

A warmth surrounds him, and he feels broken bones mending and his heart fills with an instant gratitude for this woman.

He opens his mouth, to say something, maybe even a 'thank you', but finds that his lips are locked and they cannot pull past his teeth. He tries to push himself up, to use his legs, legs that used to have enough power to rival a stallion's and finds that they would not straighten. He rose in a half-crouch and his back sloped over in a hump, and he finds himself reduced to half his height from _before._

He looks up in horror, eyes desperate on hers, disbelief and betrayal and terror, blinding terror, as he realises what she has done.

" _Beast,_ " she says again, before floating backwards inexorably, her form getting fainter, more wispy in the sun.

"Wait!" he croaks. "Wait!" he shouts. He raises a gloved hand, desperate to stop her. "You cannot leave me like this! You cannot!"

She fades away, her body mere mist now.

"No!" he screams. "Let me die! I'd rather die!"

He sees her shake her head, a cold smile on her lips and he screams in desperation, the agonised, plaintive shriek of a dying animal. "You can't leave me like this! Let me die!"

She stares at him pitilessly. " _Break the spell,_ " she says, and the words floats to him on the breath of the wind as she fades away into nothingness.

* * *

He sees her dancing in the distance. A cloud of black hair and eyes so blue they reminded him of the ocean that _Père_ had taken him to once upon a time in another lifetime... and he wondered how he could ever have thought Belle the most beautiful girl he had ever seen before. And she was; a girl. A young girl, the bloom of youth still fresh on the milk of her skin, the rose of her lips.

He steps forward, that old grin half-formed on his mouth, and throws back shoulders in a manner that habit had carved into him... and found that he could not.

His back would not straighten, his shoulders remained hunched, his mouth remained fixed in a cruel sneer; the last expression he had worn on his once handsome face as he fell from those dark spires of misery in the land of another place and another time.

The image of the sorceress dances before his eyes. Like a dream, but mired in reality.

 _"No one will love you now, Beast."_

His heart twisted, and rage consumed him, and he choked on hatred so strong it threatened to overwhelm him.

 _Beast._

He was no beast. He was Gaston. The man of men. The prince of princes.

He was _no Beast._

* * *

He survives on scraps. On the slivers of humanity that elude most of mankind. But he refuses to go begging for more. He is Gaston, he has his pride, and he will not beg.

The muscle melts off from his frame, his once lush black hair falls lank about his face, and he hides his disfigured form under a cloak of threadbare darkness. More of what made him him slinks off with it.

Time passes, and he watches as the girl blooms further, as her hair grows longer, and maturity lends a sensuality to her features. He watches as she dances for the crowd and watches as the tattered hat she has laid on the cobblestones before her fill with coins.

He withered and withers but he comes back to the same spot everyday, and he watches her from behind the grimy walls of an alleyway, because she to him is life. And beauty, and a reminder of things once was.

She is lovely, this woman, skin like silk and hair as black as a raven's wing. She spins around in a swish of skirts and scarves and he looks on, held by her spell. Coins rain on into the hat, and she spins one last time, a final whirl and ends on her hands and her knees, all lines of flowing grace.

He wonders then, why she does this. Why she dances, why she entertains for a living, for such beauty does not belong on the streets.

Such beauty belongs with a husband, with children, in a house, filled with love and warmth and safety. All that he once offered Belle, all that was never enough for Belle.

He looks up as the _clink_ of gold meets the cobbled stones of the ground. There once was a time where he never lacked for gold, and his pockets were heavy with coin.

Once.

The coin rolls and rolls as if being guided by an invisible hand. It wobbles and rolls across the stone yard and somehow clinks to a stop and collapses on its side in front of him. He freezes, afraid now where he never was, frozen to the ground as he watches her as she follows it. Watches her as she comes closer and closer and he withdraws, where he wouldn't have before.

She's there, in front of him and she sees him. She bends to pick up the coin. He sees it dance across delicate fingers and he wonders if fingers like that will ever dance across his flesh again.

She sees him, and she raises a hand to him. He shies away where he would not before, afraid. Afraid of her touch on disfigured flesh. Afraid of distaste on the perfection of her face. She raises a hand, hesitates, and offers him the coin.

"Here," she says, and her voice plays over his withered flesh like music on strings. "Take it."

Something cracks in his heart, and he's almost afraid to raise his eyes to hers. Afraid now, where he was never afraid before.

He courageously does so anyway, because he is... Gaston... and he will never stand down from his fears.

He braces himself for censure. For distaste. For fear. For disgust. Emotions he once threw away freely at lesser beings. Men less worthy than a specimen like himself.

But... nothing.

Dark lashes frame eyes even bluer than _Père's_ ocean. And he sees compassion. He sees light. He sees a purity of heart and nothing more. No darkness, no censure, no distaste, no fear. None of anything that he would have once used on himself now.

Her lips part, "You've beautiful eyes," she says, and Gaston falls in love.

He hears someone call her name from far away. A lock of her hair brushes his lips as she swivels around in reply.

Her name is called again and she rises and leaves, taking with her the scent of roses, and the memories of the ocean.

He holds her name close to his heart. Tastes the sound of it on his lips.

 _Melissande_.


	2. Chapter 2

He was sitting in a cosy kitchen. The glow from the fire surrounds the room and throws happy shadows up on the walls. There is food on the table, there always is; tender slices of ham, whose flavour he knows will burst a salty-sweet on his tongue; a wheel of creamy cheese that he knows came from the milk of goats in their shed; a rich soup that had been simmering on the stove all day, and teasing his little boy's senses, courtesy of the clean kill that Père had made when he took him out hunting this morning.

Maman turns to him and smiles, and deposits what she knows truly makes his heart sing: a warm hearty loaf of bread. It's golden-brown at the top and all around, and a dusting of oat flakes decorate the crust. Maman hands him the knife, and Père stands by proudly and tells him that men need to know how to handle a knife.

He does, and he slices into the bread with chubby hands, and it spills open, rich and aromatic and chock-full of nuts and berries. He leans forward and inhaled and nearly falls face forward into the steaming loaf. Père catches him and laughs and Maman kisses his head, and twirls his cowlick, and places a dish of pale honey-butter fresh from the creamery next to him.

They sit down and bow their heads in prayer and he eats, and his heart is full.

His mouth fills with dust at the memory, and he drags his eyes away from the warm light of the bakery as he hobbles past.

The doors to the bakery throw open and he hears shouting, the clarity of the exact words muffled by derisive scorn, and a slight form is pushed out the doors.

A woman stumbles and nearly falls in front of him. By instinct, and the chivalry bred into his very bones, he reaches out a gnarled hand to catch her before she tumbles into the snow. He withdraws his hand as soon as she gains her balance - his pride commanded he did so - before recognition dawns and a grimace can be thrown his way, then bows his head and continues on his way.

To his surprise, he feels a hand on his sloped shoulder, and he flinches because it's been too long since he last felt a human touch.

"Wait," came a voice straight out of his deepest desires and his heart stops. He tenses involuntarily, able to take scorn from anyone else. Anyone else but her.

"Wait," she says again, and her hand falls to his forearm.

Shame fills him, because it was weak and thin now, the sinew and strength in it having wasted away along with his self-worth. He shuffles his feet, and tugged his arm away from the perfection of her, and into the hideousness of him.

She relentlessly dogs his footsteps. He wishes she would just _go away._

Stubbornly, she stops in front of him, leans down and tries to peer under his hood.

He reels back away from her.

She draws back, but only slightly, raising a hand placatingly, like trying to calm a wounded animal.

"I... I see you sometimes," she says.

He doesn't like the sound of that, and he stiffens.

She pushes on, "No... I just... I..." She stops, floundering, searching for words. In the end, she gives up, and instead, reaches under her cloak to give him... Bread.

"Here," she says softly.

He looks at the roll, at a lost for words.

She speaks gently, "I see you. I see you look at the loaves on display... and I..." she stops again, waging some kind of internal battle, then bridges the space between them to take his gloved hand in a sudden movement. "Just... here."

He was caught off guard. Something that he never is, even _after_ , but most certainly was now. The bread smells heavenly, a small roll, but warm and the scent of wheat berries tickles his senses. He is transported through time back to Maman's kitchen, back to the warmth of their hearth and the heart of their love.

He does not know what to say, so he does not say anything. His hand closes around the bread, a strength to misshapen fingers born from pure emotion. It crushes in his palm, then crumbles to the snowy ground.

He finds some of his old fire, and defiantly, he lifts his head and stares at her.

She is looking at the ground, crushed, along with the crumbs of the bread. Her dark head bent and curls of raven hair escape the ties at the nape of her neck and dance in the wind.

But she looks up as she feels his eyes on her.

He watches feelings play across her features and ultimately settle into one. Her brow softens, her eyes grow limpid and she takes in a small breath as she looks for and finds his eyes.

"There you are," she says, and her lips form a beautiful smile.

He wonders what she wants with him. Wonders if she knows that every time he looks at her he is reminded of his imperfection. Of his fall from grace.

She stares at the bread on the ground. Hesitantly, with a glance at him, she bends to pick up the biggest piece, still clinging to its warmth from the oven, and hands it to him. "Here. Just... It's not... pity. It's just.. a gift."

A gift.

Once before, everyone wanted to give him gifts. But after Maman died, they always came with a price. He frowns, and his twisted face becomes even more grotesque.

She is unfazed. Even smiles in reply. "I'm sorry I could only get one. But I hope it brings you some comfort on this cold winter's night."

She reaches out and grasps his hand, gently spreading it open. Her fingers fold around his as his closes around the bread.

He makes a sound of protest, but she merely graces him with another smile and a shake of her head. She looks into his eyes and says, "Maybe you'd tell me your name one day."

She turns and leaves him then, light and lithe on the freshly fallen snow.

Gaston stares after her. The bread heavy and full in his hand, a link to the warmth of his past and a glimmer of light in his present.

His name.

He had a name once. A name of greatness. One that instilled fear and envy in all men. One that made the women sigh and flutter.

Once, he had a name.

Maybe one day he will find it again.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N** : Credit for the absolutely beautiful cover image goes to Slade's Icy Apprentice - thanks be to you, with hugs and kisses. Sorry I took so long with an update despite all the X-rated Luke Evans gifs and pics you keep spamming me with. :P_

* * *

It starts as a whisper. Hushed tones here and muted voices there. At first he wonders if they were about him, but years in this village have inured the village folk to the sight of his presence.

And then he realises it is about her.

It began with the night of the bread. And as ice melts away to reveal grass, a tentative friendship blooms between them along with the redness of the first rose of spring.

"Like attracts like," they say.

"Birds of a feather," others whisper.

"It takes one to know one," they say and shush each other as the village monster and the gypsy girl come closer.

He feels something dormant stir in his breast, and his fists clench and his sneer becomes more pronounced as he directs it their way.

"Ignore them," she says, serenely beside him.

He lets her walk beside him now. He does not know when, but that is where she walks now.

There are things about her. Things that he learns about her that he does not understand about her. He wonders if the curse has affected more than his looks, perhaps maybe even his mind as well. For he was sure that he would be able to understand before, but he surely does not now. So he frowns when the village butcher shortchanges her. He growls when the baker refuses to do business with her. He was outraged that the apothecary closes its doors to them.

To him, he would understand. But not to her, never to her.

"Ignore them," she repeats, just as serenely as the first time, every time. "They don't know any better."

He does not know that his hands have rounded in fists. He is not aware that he is standing a little bit straighter, that his chin is held a little bit higher.

He stops, thinks, considers her words. And he supposes they really do not know any better.

But even as some doors close to her, to them. There will always be those that do not.

So he follows her as she takes her business elsewhere; to the wizened old man who's game may not be as plentiful as the butcher's, but who will always save his choice kills for her. She leads him to the blind and warted spinster, who may not have potions and herbs all packed in pretty bottles, but who knows her medicines like the back of her hand, and can diagnose and heal any ailment that is brought before her.

Gaston follows, and learns, but still.

Still.

She sees his gaze wander to the pretty places. To the decorated displays of the bakery that she had tried so hard to get him bread from.

To the sharp suits on display at the tailor's. To the brightly coloured and lavishly adorned women spilling out of the milliner's.

She sees all this and she wonders about his past, because despite the threadbare cloak that he wears and the torn and tattered rags that hang off his form; even she could see that his boots were once of the softest leather. That the material of his shirt was of the highest order, with stitches so fine that they were nearly invisible. That his gloves were not made for a workman's hands.

She understands that this makes him above and beyond her league. But despite all this. She is drawn to him, the man with the deformed back, with the gnarled hands, with the cruelly frozen face.

She does not know why. She does not understand why. All she knows is that she does, therefore she is.

* * *

The sound of something popping brings him back to the war. Blood and rage and fury and gore. The war has taken everything from him. It was a war between kings but its sacrifice is the lives of their men. He was one of their men, and never destined to be average, he rose among the ranks of the army to captain a platoon.

He fights because he was commanded to do so. He kills because he would lay his life down for his king. He convinces himself that he likes this. And maybe a part of him does. The part that believes in chivalry and valour and the triumph of victory.

But. _But._

With every little triumph, a part of his soul dies.

He is rewarded. Richly. Handsomely, with every enemy felled, every piece of land that he conquers with his men in the name of the king. And he closes his eyes and loses a little bit more of his maman. A little bit more of his père. A little bit more of him. And then he remembers that it was the war that had taken them away from him in the first place. And he hardens his resolve and blocks out all else.

And at twenty years of age, the war ends, but Gaston had already become a man five years before that. Or maybe even a little bit before, the night when he witnessed both his maman and père strung up and killed before his eyes at the hands of the English enemy.

He buys a tavern with his riches; his spoils of war. And with it he fills it up with merriment and laughter, with fire and warmth, with company and people.

And... love.

Everything that he once had, but tries to buy now. Everything that he wants, but exists as a mockery in the frivolous nature of his life now.

For it was raucous merriment. Drunken laughter. Unsavoury company.

And... _love._ Gaston never lacked for love. The women loved him and he loved them in return. He closed his heart to the kind that existed between his maman and papa. He closed himself to the possibility of ever after.

He drowns himself in the pale gold of beer, the dark amber of whiskey, and tells himself yet again, that this is enough, that this is what he wants.

And then he sees her.

He sees Belle.

* * *

Belle was… different.

Sweet and pure and innocent and good. The first time he sees her, he sees her hair. The same shade of rich mahogany that brought back memories of a woman in a warm kitchen and smells of bread baking in the air. He hears her speak; clear and articulate and he is reminded of a soft-spoken woman with gentle hands and a bright intelligence who loved him and made his world. He is reminded of… love.

Love when it was good and pure. That fills his heart and paints the world in shades of gold and the colours of the rainbow.

It was those colours that he sees as he impulsively gathers a bouquet of flowers for her. Haphazard and wild but vibrant and real. He does not think to wonder if they are of her taste. He does not stop to consider that she would not like it. That she may not appreciate the gesture and see the sentiment behind it. All he remembers is picking flowers for his mother and the beautiful smile on her face as she receives them. All he wants is to see the same smile on her face.

His heart thuds as he hands it to her and he hides it behind swagger and the practiced charm of his roguish smile.

But somehow, it fails.

She does not see the man behind the smile. The boy in the shadows of his eyes. The soul hidden behind the shallowness of his war-crafted exterior. The loneliness he tries to bury with the buying of company.

She does not see the desperation behind with which he tries to woo her. She casts him in a mould and typifies his kind and dismisses the earnestness of his gestures entirely.

Gaston sees this and doubles his efforts to do better.

But, like the last rose of winter, it was doomed to die among ice and snow, together with the frost of her smile.

Much like the chill of rejection that seeps into his veins.

Much like the ashes of a previous life, and the cinders of a long-held dream.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Grazie bella, you've been a great help and you know it. XO.

* * *

She disappears. She disappears one day into the forest that borders the village and his heart leaps to his throat when her father comes bursting into his tavern, disheveled and distraught. The chill of the night blows in with his sudden entrance and Gaston picks up the sharp sting of the cold outside as it blows over him.

A ripple goes through the tavern.

Beast, he hears.

 _Beast_ , Maurice says.

Blood rushes through his veins. He will save his girl, he will slay this beast. A purpose, a quest. Reality seeps through with LeFou's words of caution. For what does he know, really? Has anyone ever seen this creature? And a beast at that. Surely, _surely_ someone would have known of this mysterious castle, heard tale of this mystical beast.

 _Think, Gaston_ , says his loyal friend. _Don't just react_.

Theirs was a friendship forged from the fires of war and death and dying. He looks at LeFou and he thanks a long forgotten faith that he has the loyalty of a friend like him. He misses the idolatry in the little man's eyes. He fails to see the naked longing in the hooded gaze.

He does not believe in tall tales, but he claps LeFou hard on the shoulder and nods for his benefit. He does not believe that Maurice is right in the head, but he shrugs on his greatcoat, and orders another horse saddled for him anyway.

LeFou protests, once, twice and then swallows the third. Gaston turns to leave, and as always, the little man follows. He follows Gaston as Gaston heads out into the icy night, he follows Gaston as Gaston follows Maurice. He follows even as he knows Gaston is driven by one woman in his mind, one animal to kill.

* * *

Maurice leads them on a merry chase. He turns left, and then right, and then in a circle and another circle and before Gaston knows it, half the night is gone and it is several hours into the start of the next day.

The snow falls, thick and fast, and a huffing wind picks up. Bald, thin trees loom overhead as Maurice mumbles and mutters and Gaston follows behind him, patience wearing thinner and thinner with each snowflake that melts and seeps into the material of his already drenched coat, with each little slip and stumble their horses make on the frozen ground.

He hears LeFou grunt and he looks over to see that his friend is miserable and nearly blue with cold, shivering uncontrollably with icicles hanging from the tips of his hair. His eyes go back to Maurice muttering and falling over himself as he scratches his head and leads them on their fifth turn through the same forked road.

And his control snaps. LeFou tries to calm him down, tries to talk some sense into him. And for a moment, a long moment he does. For he reminds himself that this is for Belle, because he wants Belle, because Belle is good, and she is all that he has ever wanted in his life.

He smiles a forced smile, a hard smile, but still a smile, and lets Maurice bumble on.

But Maurice…

Maurice fails again, and twice more after that to take them to Belle; to rescue Belle. Fear and uncertainty, they overtake Maurice. And out of frustration or desperation or helplessness, he blames it all on Gaston.

Gaston thinks of Belle. He inhales, he exhales. He thinks of a warm kitchen and strapping sons and love and safety. He inhales, he exhales. He smiles.

But Maurice… Never stable and clear-thinking in the best of times; is consumed by hysteria now.

And then the words come. Born of exhaustion and agitation and despair, they were coated with vitriol and malice and spite.

 _Belle will never marry the likes of you!_

They echo among the bare trees, bite into the cold under the glow of a moon, an endless repeat into the emptiness of the woods.

Red clouds Gaston's vision. Anger steals his heart. Pain corrupts his soul.

Darkness dawns in a single moment, and consequences are swallowed by the night.

Gaston does not see, he does not think, he just does.

The sun rises the next morning and greets him in an alcohol induced haze, and wispy memories of ropes, a tree, and the thunder of hooves as his horse carries him away from the bound and shivering form of the father of the girl he would have given his life to have married.

* * *

His eyes follow a different girl now.

Follows as she rubs an ointment into his hand, trying to straighten twisted fingers, trying to soothe an arthritic ache.

A small fire crackles in the small hearth, at the heart of an even smaller kitchen. He gazes upon her face as firelight dances across the room and plays upon the features of her delicate beauty.

A shadow appears, a slight hollow, one with uneven lines, on the cream of her cheek and Gaston, frowning slightly, blinks. But then her lashes flick upwards and the blue of her eyes captivates him.

A smile appears on the fullness of her lips, and his heart turns over.

There is food on the table. A simple fare. Bread, slightly misshapen, slightly burnt, but steam rises from within as she slices into it with a knife. Butter, plain and unflavoured, but fresh and creamy, made with her hands.

She moves to the stove, where a small saucepan sits, and he watches as she stirs its contents meticulously. She wears a simple cotton dress, with an apron folded down and tied around the contour of her waist. Tendrils of hair escapes the braid that lies down her back and she smiles at him as she reaches for one of the numerous jars of spices and herbs and culinary magic she has lying by the side of the stove.

The contents of the saucepan simmers, and a familiar scent wafts over to him. Milk… No. _Cream._

He brightens instantly. She opens the lid of one of the jars and he is intrigued as a decadent looking dark powder appears in the spoon in her hand. She stirs this into the little pan and the aroma that fills the warmth of the kitchen nearly makes him weak at the knees.

Chocolate. He has only ever had chocolate on special occasions when he was a boy, and a giddy excitement takes over his senses.

He watches as honey goes in next, a dark gold floral kind, a heaping spoonful of sticky viscous goodness. And her fingers skate musingly over the row of jars again as she considers them and their contents. Finally they stop and dip into one. Gaston expects cinnamon, but she surprises him, and the clean scent of mint blends into the rich chocolate.

She settles a wooden mug next to him and pours the thick mixture into it. He reaches out for it, but she stops him with a gentle hand on his wrist. It was an action from another time, a smile from another woman and the table of another reality as her head bows and her lips move to give thanks.

Then she serves him the bread, pushes the butter towards him and with sparkling eyes watches as he struggles to drink through ravaged lips, and then nearly swoons with his first sip of chocolate in forever.

She raises her mug. "Bon appétit," she says.

He licks chocolate off his lip. "Bon appétit," he replies.

And his heart is full.


End file.
